I ring DC Snacks, which delivers food, beverages, hookah & more to those in the District with late-night cravings. "Do you deliver to Woodley Park?" I inquire. The employee answers, quite clearly, "Yep, we do." Great! I quickly place my order & excitedly text a friend, "I just ordered dinner from TGIFridays bc DCsnacks delivers from there. Amazing. The Midwest at my door!"
An hour later, I get a call from my "driver" asking me where I live. I explain. He asks, "Where is that in relation to M Street? That's where I am." I tell him I have no idea, that I've never driven a car in the District. Don't deliveryfolk have to take some sort of directional test? Look at some sort of map? Carry some sort of GPS? Or... not.
Two minutes later, he calls back. "I just want you to know that you're WAY out of my delivery area," he shouts. "I'm on a bike! We only deliver around GW!" Well... that's all jolly & good, sir, but why did your colleague tell me otherwise?! And why didn't anyone notice until you were on the bike? And why do you deliver on bikes? OK, that last one is beside the point.
The general manager I speak with next apologizes only for the
Seriously. Am I under some sort of customer service curse? Is there a scarlet S painted on my forehead that stands for "SCREW ME OVER"?
Bonus: When the delivery biker finally arrives, the Jack Daniels sauce from my chicken strips has coated my entire order, including the free condom that DC Snacks puts in the bottom of every bag. Yum!
Double Bonus: After one bite, I toss my cold, limp French fries into the garbage disposal. It breaks, backing up & spewing French fry bits all over the sink. Maintenance will come fix it... on Monday.
PS: I found this. Afterward.